


The Time Before

by ConvivialCamera



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: 1930s, F/M, London, screwball comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-02-03 17:07:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12752565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvivialCamera/pseuds/ConvivialCamera
Summary: When 18-year-old Claire Beauchamp meets Dr. Frank Randall she leads him on a quest for adventure and fun through the streets and clubs of London, unaware of the future that awaits her. Complete.





	1. Chapter 1

_July 1937_

We had just returned to London, Uncle Lamb and I, stepping off the train at Victoria Station and emerging into the bustle of the city. It was a far cry from the dig in South America, where we had been excavating Inca ruins and living, shall we say, rather rougher than would be expected for an Oxford-educated scholar and his gently-reared niece. I would miss the quiet of the wilds of Peru, but was excited to be back in the center of things.

I slung my satchel over my shoulder, following Uncle Lamb and his manservant Firouz up the busy street. The miasma of the city — smoke, automobile exhaust, rubbish and just a tinge of vomit — hit my nostrils and I sighed, contentedly. We had been in Peru nearly nine months while Uncle Lamb worked the dig at Ollantaytambo, studying the 15th century city’s military defences and excavating weapons to send to London for further study. While I had grown up following Uncle Lamb on his expeditions, I was looking forward to just a bit of stability.

“I need to go to my offices before we head to our lodging, Claire,” Uncle Lamb said as we stopped at the street corner. Firouz, his dark hair gleaming in the sunlight, was hailing us a cab. “Would you like to go with Firouz straight to the flat?”

“No, I’ll come with you,” I said, shaking out my curls in the breeze. “I haven’t much to do at the flat by myself.”

Firouz loaded our baggage into the trunk of the cab and I slid into the backseat next to Uncle Lamb. “Why are you so keen to get to the college?” I asked, as the cab sped away toward, I assumed, the British Museum. “We’ve been away for months, surely another day won’t delay anything.”

“Oh, I’ve had a fascinating query from a junior professor that I wish to start on as soon as possible, about a point of French philosophy as it relates to Egyptian religious practice. Can you imagine?”

“Not even a little bit.” I smiled at him, charmed by his never-ending enthusiasm for his research. I was much more interested in getting out at night, myself, sans escort. The opportunities for cinema-going, dancing or cavorting with handsome men had been rather thin on the ground in Peru. I had spent more than nine months longing for a little fun.

Well, maybe not longing that hard, I thought, remembering some of the more steamy nights in the jungle, keeping not-so-cool with one of the more attractive graduate students working on the dig. Helmut was tall and sandy-haired, with brown eyes and a devastating smile, and a nigh-unquenchable thirst for the only girl in miles. We had a fair bit of fun sneaking about the ruins, and he had promised to write, but I wasn’t planning on holding my breath.

I did, however, put thoughts of Helmut and his callused hands aside, worried my face would reveal more than I intended. But Uncle Lamb had his nose in his research notebook. We never discussed my liaisons, and I honestly wasn’t sure how much he knew about my social life. He had given me a very scientific explanation of where babies come from at age 10, and we had never spoken of it again. My uncle was an oddly distracted man, but I was sure he couldn’t have been totally oblivious to my late-night comings and goings or flirtations during mealtimes. And he had been going on about the vestal virgins again...

But no matter. Helmut was still in Peru, and I was back in London. We would be in the city for at least six months — Uncle Lamb wanted time to finish his latest book about his research and ensure the relics he sent back to the museum were properly preserved, catalogued and archived. To my left, Hyde Park’s trees loomed tall and rows of neatly-manicured flowers bloomed; they were a far cry from the overgrown and unruly foliage of the jungle. Everything here, from the black cabs, to the city squares, to the newspaper cones of chips being sold on the street corners, to the Marble Arch we were zooming by, practically screamed their Englishness. It should’ve felt like a homecoming, I thought, although it really just felt like the next big adventure.

I had grown up on the road with Uncle Lamb, traveling from dig to dig, exotic jungle to historic ruin to blazing desert, since my parents’ deaths when I was five. I was coming up on 19 now, and hadn’t spent more than two years all together in England since. We came back for short stints, so Uncle Lamb could present his work to his esteemed colleagues, or to re-supply for our next expedition, but I was generally more comfortable living out of a rucksack and in a tent than in our flat in the city.

The cab stopped, and I saw the marble columns of the British Museum rise stoically into the London skyline. Uncle Lamb slid out of the cab, and I followed onto the curb. A small flock of pigeons descended on a bit of dropped crumb on the sidewalk, squawking and squabbling, as Uncle Lamb leaned in the front window, paid the gruff cabbie, and said a final few words on instruction to Firouz. He then, with a look of great satisfaction, held out his elbow for me to take, and I waved goodbye to Firouz as the cab sped away as we grandly strolled up the iconic steps, into the temple of his beloved work.

His office was in the far-off academic wing of the museum; a small window looked over a picturesque courtyard with a gleaming white statue of Artemis. It was filled, almost from floor to ceiling, with books, papers and parchments. Uncle Lamb’s desk was tucked in a corner and similarly covered in academic detris — although, I knew there was some method to the madness that was only quite intelligible to Uncle Lamb. He always left strict instructions that his office and papers be left alone while he was out of the country.

I wandered around the office, picking things up and putting them down while Uncle Lamb sat at his desk and pulled out his traveling notebook once again, and then fumbled through some correspondence. While his office was filled with objectively fascinating antiquities, there was nothing I hadn’t seen before, and I could tell he was settling in for a long session of work.

“Uncle Lamb, do you think you’ll be long? I might visit the Reading Room.”

“I’ll only be a few hours or so. Then we’ll go to the pub and get supper.”

I glanced at a clock — it was just after three in the afternoon, and we had been traveling all morning. “Of course, I’ll come back later,” I said, knowing “a few hours” could be anywhere between two and ten, depending on how absorbed Uncle Lamb became in his work. But, the museum closed at a reasonable hour and I could insist upon dinner when I returned.

I had had a reader’s ticket from the principal librarian since I was a girl, under the sponsorship of Uncle Lamb, taking out books on botany, flora and fauna to look at the pictures. The dome of the Reading Room rose above me as the silence of the library fell. It was heavily populated for an afternoon with no classes in session; the room was filled with the harsh glow of summer sunshine. I took a left and started to wend my way around the stacks, through physics and engineering, stopping at periodicals. I wasn’t particularly fussed on _Ladies Companion,_ full of recipes and advice on raising children as it was, but I glanced through _Nash’s_ , hoping for a glimpse of the latest film stars or glamorous dresses. No such luck; though, I dolefully noted how straight the hairstyles had become. I could never tame my curls into a sleek bob that would fit neatly under a cloche hat, and Uncle Lamb loathed hats on women anyway.

Abandoning the magazines, I meandered toward fiction, the next section in my circle around the room. Was there a new Agatha Christie, perhaps? I had only brought Dickens to Peru and was sorely in need of a change of pace. I was reaching for a maroon-covered volume with gold-gilt lettering that caught a ray of sunshine from the overhead windows, when I heard a soft footfall behind me.

“'No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face,'” a deep and rather dreamy voice said behind me. I turned to look over my shoulder. A rather handsome man, with dark hair, hazel eyes and a distinguished face, smiled.

“John Donne.”

“You know Donne but you’re choosing from the penny dreadful section?”

I was surprised by the jibe, although I supposed I shouldn’t have been. He cut a dashing figure for an obvious academic. His practical brown suit was of quality, but rumpled as if he had been sitting at a desk for hours; his tie was just slightly undone; and there was a small ink stain on his white shirt next to the lapel of his jacket.

“Since you’re so fond of Donne, try this one,” I said, leaning in conspiratorially, “‘Humiliation is the beginning of sanctification.’”

“Who said anything about humiliation?” The man clearly thought he was charming me.

I raised my voice just above an acceptable level for a library, to make sure anyone in the next aisle would hear. “Agatha Christie hardly writes penny dreadfuls, so don’t insult my taste in literature in an attempt to make my acquaintance.” I smiled beatifically at him, and watched the assured, charismatic grin fall from his face.

“My apologies, miss...” Recovering quickly, he raised his eyebrows as if expecting me to fill in the blank.

Raising my own eyebrows, I decided not to give him the satisfaction. “Not at all,” I said, polite to the point of pointedly rude. I turned back to the shelves, dismissing and forgetting him in the same moment. Not quite finding what I was looking for — there was only _Murder on the Orient Express_ , which I had read so many times on a trip to Egypt two years before I could recite it from memory — I walked a few paces, reflecting I had never delved into the world of Sherlock Holmes.

The librarian-on-duty, who had known me since I was small, shooed me out of the Reading Room two hours later, with few new novels and a book of poetry tucked under my arm. I took the long route back to Uncle Lamb’s office, preparing to cajole him into abandoning his studies so we could eat. It being our first meal back on English soil, I reckoned it would be a relatively easy task — Uncle Lamb gloried in a good shepherd’s pie, which was not something served at camp in Peru.

I could hear the sound of raucous academic debate coming from Uncle Lamb’s office when I turned down the corridor. It seemed Uncle Lamb had hit his stride on the finer points of tomb contents in ancient Egypt’s Middle Kingdom, and I hovered just out of sight at the door waiting for a lull in conversation. As I expected, it was a few moments before I heard Uncle Lamb pause for breath, and I knocked softly and started to push open the door. “Uncle, are you ready for... oh.”

Uncle Lamb was sitting at his desk, and the man he was speaking with — obviously the young scholar who wanted to talk French philosophy — turned around in his seat. It was him! The dashing man who objected to mystery novels was here, in my uncle’s office.

“Claire, do come in,” Uncle Lamb said jovially, standing to greet me. His guest stood as well. “Dr. Randall, allow me to introduce my niece, Claire Beauchamp. Claire, this is Dr. Franklin Randall; he’s a don in the University of London’s history department.”

Well, now he knew my name. “How do you do, Dr. Randall.” I stuck out my hand to shake, but he took it in his and raised it to his lips, kissing it gently on the back. His lips were warm, just-so-slightly dry; it sent a small shiver up my arm that coiled deep in my belly.

“How do you do, Miss Beauchamp.” His voice was just as dreamy as it had been in the Reading Room, assured and educated, soft but with a hint of a rasp. I nodded my head in acknowledgement, and as he, seemingly reluctantly, let go my hand, I turned to my uncle.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt. I can come back later.”

“Oh, no, dear,” Uncle Lamb said, coming around his desk. “We were just discussing some burial practices, you know, the Egyptians’ beliefs in this area...”

I laughed. “Yes, I know. We’ve spent enough time excavating their tombs.”

“Well, yes, of course, dear. But you must be starved.” He turned to Dr. Randall as he plopped his hat on his head. “We’re going to have a bite of supper down at the pub, would you care to...”

“I’m sure Dr. Randall has other...” I started to object.

“I would be pleased to join you,” Dr. Randall perked up immediately. “I’m a bit peckish myself.”


	2. Chapter 2

My evening meal was not going as planned. The pub was as English as could be desired, and the shepherd’s pie just as delicious, but instead of a short and quiet meal with my uncle that I could easily slip away from, we were saddled with Dr. Randall. He was in his element talking archeology with Uncle Lamb; he also couldn't keep his eyes off me. I was sure my annoyance was written all over my glass face, but it didn’t deter him in the least.

The pub was just up the street from the museum, and we had walked over together in the heat of the late-afternoon sun. Dr. Randall had removed his jacket and was now in his shirtsleeves, the cuffs rolled up to his elbows and vest unbuttoned, in deference to the heat. He was slender, but I could see the muscles of his forearms quicken close under the skin as he gesticulated with his elegant hands. I sipped my pint of ordinary bitter, suddenly trying not to think about what those academically-minded, lecturing hands would feel like on my...

“Oh, Claire is thinking of entering university, aren’t you, dear?” My uncle’s question jolted me out of my reverie and back to the reality of the pub and my supper companions.

“I think _you’re_ thinking of my entering university,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. This had been a minor point of contention during our last weeks in Peru. Uncle Lamb thought our stay in London would be perfect for me to begin classes, while I was more apprehensive. I hadn’t spent a day of my life in a classroom; I learned everything I knew from Uncle Lamb or in tutoring with Firouz and didn’t particularly see a need to stop now. I smiled brightly at him. “I’ve spent practically my entire life as your apprentice, Uncle Lamb, what could a university teach me?”

“You could learn something other than how to excavate old pottery from the ground,” Uncle Lamb said, nudging me with his elbow. “You won’t be following me to the ends of the earth on digs forever. And...”

I knew what he was going to say next and ruthlessly cut him off. “I never touched your Persian grave figurines, so I don’t know what you’re on about.” I wiggled my eyebrows at Uncle Lamb, and then leaned across the table towards Dr. Randall. “He’s been scheming to be rid of me for years. He tried to drop me at a boarding school once,” I said, just loud enough for Uncle Lamb to hear. This was an old joke between us, and he laughed heartily.

“I’m sure Dr. Beauchamp would never dream of abandoning you to the savage wilds of a girls boarding school,” Dr. Randall said, rather gamely playing along.

I straightened up, in my best faux-haughty manner. “I didn’t even make it out of the car, and yet he still tried.” Both of my companions laughed, breaking the air of pretense. I sat back in my seat and wrapped my hands around my drink. It felt just barely cold on my skin; I placed the inside of my wrist against the glass and felt my blood cool at the touch.

“If you don’t want to attend university, then what do you wish to do?” Dr. Randall asked me.

I tilted my head to the side, appraising him, and took another drink of bitter. He met my gaze directly, his eyes drinking me in. I could easily be lost. The pub was dim, and the heat suffocating, and I felt a small pebble of ice grow in my stomach. I smiled, hoping my face didn’t reveal my nascent anxiety about my future. “My only ambition, Dr. Randall, is to seek entertainment and diversion while we’re in London.”

“I’m sure you’ll find many avenues for amusement, Miss Beauchamp,” he said.

“Indeed,” I replied, I hoped enigmatically.

Uncle Lamb, finished with his meal, was standing to go. I jumped up to follow him, smoothing the skirt of my dress, and shaking out my curls. “Are you headed back to the flat?” I asked.

“No, my dear,” he said, walking out of the pub and onto the street. “I still have some work to do at my office.”

Dr. Randall was right behind us. “I’d be happy to escort your niece home, Dr. Beauchamp,” he said ingratiatingly.

Before I could even open my mouth to object, my uncle (the traitor) had agreed. “That would be wonderful, Dr. Randall. Do phone when you’ve found that fascinating manuscript; I would very much like to examine it myself.” Dr. Randall doffed his hat, and Uncle Lamb turned to me. “I won’t be home tonight, Claire. Don’t you and Firouz wait up.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I kissed his cheek. He turned back toward the British Museum and I quickly turned the other direction, looking for a bus stop, or maybe the Underground station —  Tottenham Court Road wasn’t far. Twilight had fallen on the city, and the streetlights were lit, making the night bright as day. I had become accustomed to the darkness of the wilderness, with only fires, torches and oil lamps for illumination after sunset. I paused at the streetcorner, bustling with people and vehicles, to marvel at the sight of modernity.

Of course, this gave my new shadow a chance to catch up with me. “Miss Beauchamp!”

“Oh, bloody hell,” I muttered. “Yes, Dr. Randall?” Traffic cleared and I began to cross the street, but he was at my elbow and showed no signs of letting up.

“Perhaps we could get a cab to your home? Where is your uncle’s flat?”

“Since I’m not going to the flat, I’m sure that’s none of your business.” I picked up my pace, but he had gently grabbed my hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm. I pulled at my hand, trying to dislodge it. “Thank you for your kind offer of escort, but it won’t be necessary.”

“What do you mean, you’re not going to the flat?” Dr. Randall asked, rather flabbergasted. “Where are you going?”

I rolled my eyes to heaven, seeking patience with this handsome man who was bound to ruin my evening. “If you must know, I’m headed to Regent Street, for a start.”

“Regent Street? Unescorted?” He seemed shocked.

“I have lived in some of the most dangerous places on Earth, Dr. Randall,” I laughed at him, deliberately trying to bait him. “I think I can handle myself in London.”

“The jungles of Timbuktu are hardly central London at night.” His face showed genuine concern, which was rather endearing, if inconvenient. “There are many who would take advantage...”

“I’m sorry, but are you about to imply that I’m going to be robbed by highwaymen?” I teased. “Or locked in the Tower of London for the crime of walking about without a man?”

“I cannot, in honor, abandon you,” he said, with both worry and good humor.

I stopped under the glow of a street light that brightly shone on a bus stop, and eyed him speculatively. I could do more to dissuade him, but it seemed I wasn’t going to be rid of him easily. And he might become useful as my plans for the evening unfolded. I glanced behind my shoulder, and then gave him my most exasperated look. “Well, then, you’ll just have to come along, won’t you?”

Just as I anticipated, the next bus stopped and opened its door right in front of me. I hopped on, nodded to the driver, and started walking up the aisle to a pair of open seats about halfway back. I watched through the window as Dr. Randall quickly deliberated his next move. “Are you getting on, mister?” the bus driver yelled. Dr. Randall startled, and then a moment later decided: he followed my path up the stairs and down the aisle, sitting next to me in the empty seat.

“So, what exactly is on Regent Street?”

I smiled brightly at him. “Paradise.”

The entrance to the Paradise Club was a small crimson door between two large department stores with its name neatly painted on the front in block letters. Dr. Randall opened the door for me and followed me inside a long, narrow corridor that led to a second door, where a man in a dark suit on a tall stool waited for us. I could hear the faint sounds of the band, playing a jazzy tune that I couldn’t quite recall, but felt familiar regardless. The man took a sharp look at me, and then glanced at Dr. Randall, who had removed his hat, revealing the neatly combed and pomaded hair beneath. We must have looked like the right sort of people. The doorman stood from his stool and swung open the door; the music swelled in volume and I stepped inside, my shadow at my elbow.

It was marvelous and I paused to take it all in. There was a dance floor next to the band; small tables to the left where couples were sitting scandalously close in conversation and — yes, one of them was definitely kissing passionately. The cocktail waitresses were all smartly dressed in shiny blouses and neatly-coiffed finger waves (to which my hair could never aspire), and the bartenders wore tuxedos while serving rainbow-colored drinks in tall cocktail glasses. I could see into some alcoves where gaming tables were set up. I started to wander toward a table not too far from the dance floor, taking in the sights. My heart swelled; it was almost everything for which I had been searching. My shadow, sitting down next to me (and about as close and the other couples), was not as enraptured.

“I think I’m going to have some champagne,” I said to him, raising my voice to be heard over the music, “and then I’m going to play some dice.” Dr. Randall leaned closer to me, not hearing what I said. I repeated myself loudly and directly into his ear: “Champagne, then dicing!”

His eyes bulged dramatically at me, like a cartoon mouse I had seen at the cinema. He put a hand on my shoulder and brought my ear close to his face. “How do you know how to play dice?” he asked urgently.

A waitress had arrived. She didn’t say anything, just looked her question at Dr. Randall as if he knew what she asked. He did, of course. “Scotch, neat,” he practically yelled, “and a champagne for the lady.” He immediately turned back to me, asking his own question with his expression.

“What do you think we do in the jungle?” I said into his ear. “I’ve been gambling for years with the laborers. It’s how I learned I’m at a terrible disadvantage in poker.”

“Your uncle will have me flayed and professionally ruined if you get arrested for illegal gambling in my care.” He was scolding me almost like I was a child — not that I’d had much experience; Uncle Lamb had never said a harsh word to me in my life. I tried not to roll my eyes at him.

“Well, you insisted on coming along. Don’t be a spoilsport.” I then laughed, entertained by the idea of Uncle Lamb harming anyone at all. “And my uncle wouldn’t hurt a fly, much less you.”

The drinks arrived and Dr. Randall took a brooding sip. I was clearly dragging him out of his depth and into dangerous waters. I sipped my own drink, the bubbles tickling my palate, and smiled at him over the broad rim of the champagne glass. I hadn’t had champagne since... yes, the night we had finally fully excavated the ancient warrior from his makeshift tomb in Ollantaytambo. The warrior had been well-preserved and an important find about which Uncle Lamb had been most excited. We had drunk the small supply of champagne Uncle Lamb meant for the last night nearly four months early. The memory made me smile.

The band struck up a slower, softer song, and I watched the tension leave Dr. Randall’s face. My glass was empty, and I started to look to the edges of the club, scoping out the best game to join. “Perhaps you’d like to dance?” Dr. Randall asked, nodding his head towards the dance floor. He was clearly trying to distract me from more dangerous pursuits, but I quickly nodded my acquiescence.

A short, rather rotund man in a white dinner jacket and bowtie had stepped to the microphone, clearing his throat before gently crooning the lyrics in a lovely tenor: _“You must remember this: a kiss is just a kiss; a sigh is just a sigh...”_

Dr. Randall led me onto the dance floor, and then swept me up in his arms, taking one hand in mine and placing the other on my back. It wasn’t an improper embrace by any means, but his touch was ever-so-slightly lower than strictly appropriate. The warm quiver in my belly returned, and I allowed myself to slide into the feeling as he led me through a simple, elegant step. It made me want more; it made me want _him_. I pulled him ever-so-slightly closer to me, brushing my chest against his and moving my hips in consort. His grip on my back tightened in mutual appreciation. I gazed up at him, peeking from beneath my lashes, and his eyes met mine. He lowered his face to mine, and just as his lips were about to make contact the song ended and the band immediately stuck up a loud, fast number — startling both of us. I jumped away, breaking his grip on my body.

He was looking at me dolefully, but I was in no mood to humor regret. Spotting my original objective, I grabbed his hand and excitedly pulled him through the club to a dice table. There was a small crowd of men gathered while the game manager, in a well-worn tuxedo, stood above everyone on a stool. The crowd parted for me, the only girl, and I stepped up to the table — the wood was sturdy when my hip pressed against it, and the blue velvet that tightly covered the top was soft on my fingertips. The game manager, an older gentleman with thinning blond hair, met my eye. “The lady will set the point,” he announced, passing a set of dice to me. “Place your bets!”

All eyes were on me as men put money on the table. When the game manager nodded at me, I dramatically kissed the dice and then shook them in my hand, letting them fly across the table. They landed with a 4 and a 2 up — and I grinned at the assembled men; there was a good probability I could roll a six again. Dr. Randall had scooted through the crowd and was to my right; I noticed he had placed a 5-pound note on the table. I nudged him playfully with my elbow, and took up the dice again. Again the center of attention, I rolled: a 4 and a 1.

But something didn’t quite feel right as I gathered the dice for the third time. Some of the men were looking apprehensive. I carefully felt the dice in my left hand, and then tossed them to my right, mentally quantifying their shape. I tossed them once more: a 4 and a 5. Damn. But my suspicions were close to being confirmed. Dr. Randall was staring at me, watching my face closely. I met his gaze and for a moment let my face show everything I was thinking, but then quickly tried to re-school my features into a mask of gaiety. I rolled the dice for the last time, as the crowd held its breath: a 4 and a 6. The crowd sighed in disappointment, and surrendered their money to the game manager.

“The dice are weighted.” I said loudly, looking the game manager straight in the eye. “This one just rolled a 4 four times in row.” He sneered at me, clearly displaying his guilt to the crowd, and then moved to grab me.

Dr. Randall had his hand on my arm and was pushing me behind him before the game manager could react further. “Excuse us, gentlemen, I believe the lady has had too much champagne,” he said in a placating voice, guiding me away.

“But...” I started.

“Not here!” He whispered harshly, now pulling me behind him by the arm as we briskly fled the club. We flew through the tables, past the dance floor, out the door and then into the long corridor and onto the street. The crimson door closed with a slam behind us.

“You accused the house of cheating! Do you want to start a riot?”

“But it was unfair!” I protested. “Those dice were weighted.”

He put his hat firmly on his head and then leaned against a brick wall, putting his head in his hands. My heart was racing, and I could feel my blood run fast through my limbs; I was like a live wire, ready to spark and catch fire. I paced in front of him as he regained his composure. Dr. Randall looked up and met my eye, and then started to laugh. I laughed too, breaking the nervous tension.

“My God,” he said. “What am I going to do with you?”

I beamed at him. “I’ve got one idea.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I privately call this chapter, "In which Claire walks into a night club and starts some shit."
> 
> I have no idea if the Paradise Club is a real place, but I was inspired by a photo I found on Twitter. 
> 
> “As Time Goes By” is most famous in the U.S. from the 1942 film Casablanca, but it was actually released in 1931, which I was very pleased to learn (I think it fits perfectly in this story). 
> 
> I based the dice game on a modern casino game called Street Dice. This is obviously a bastardization, but the idea is that once the point is set, the player has three tries to roll the same number. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

“Tell me about your research.”

Dr. Randall and I strolled along Regent Street, my arm warmly enfolded in his. It was a suffocatingly hot night, most uncharacteristic for London, but I still relished feeling the heat of his body radiate into my side as we walked together. I was a bit chastened after being chased out of the Paradise Club, but I knew from years of experience that the best way to start conversation with a scholar was to ask about his studies.

“I did most of my graduate work on the Huguenots in France.” Dr. Randall was pleased, and I had to stop myself from smirking at him, blushed with my success. “But now with my new position I’m shifting to into the 18th century — the Jacobites in Scotland and France, the rebellions and all that.”

“So, you’re interested in religious conflict during the Enlightenment?”

“The French Wars of Religion were really before the Enlightenment, but yes,” he gently corrected. “Although, my new work on the Jacobites was more a natural progression than a plan, and the dean at the University of London was excited about it.” He shrugged. “And there’s some personal interest. I had an ancestor who fought..."

“For the Jacobites?” Frank Randall was as English as they came, a Scottish rebel ancestor would have been quite incongruous.

“Oh no, for the English. An army captain.”

“I’m sure he served with great distinction,” I said gravely, with great amusement. I was sure my teasing ruse was on verge of being discovered.

“I don’t know much about him, other than what is on the genealogy chart,” Dr. Randall replied seriously.

“Avenues for future research, I’m sure.” I felt my dress cling lightly with sweat to my sides. The street was still bustling, but the heat made everyone’s movements seem languid and slow. I felt my own heartbeat, slowing after the excitement of fleeing the nightclub but strong, as it pushed blood through my veins and into my fingertips.

“Why don't you wish to attend university?” he asked me.

“I've never been to proper school before,” I said serenely, but my heart started thumping harder in agitation. “There’s no reason to start now. Uncle Lamb wishes me to be married, and thinks dumping me at uni in London will, as they say, do the trick.”

“But you think you’re going to find a husband in the jungle whilst digging up artifacts with your uncle?”

“You’d be surprised,” I said, absently thinking of Helmut and a few other liaisons I'd had whilst digging up artifacts. Dr. Randall watched me curiously, but didn't comment further. We rounded a curve through Piccadilly Circus, and I nudged Dr. Randall towards crossing onto a side street.

“You must know where we’re headed,” Dr. Randall commented dryly.

“Oh, yes. Do you like the blues?” I asked, trying to be a little mysterious.

“The blues? Are they a new football team?”

I giggled. “No, it’s music. From the American South?” He looked at me doubtfully, but with the air of a man who was about to humor me. “New experiences are good for developing character,” I told him crisply.

The Shim-Sham Room was smaller than the Paradise Club, but packed with even more people, all of whom had a decidedly bohemian flair. Dr. Randall, in his conservative, if rumpled, suit and hat seemed positively square. The slow heat of the night gave way to the slow heat of the music; dancing couples filled the room, moving closely to the slow heat of the beat. I felt the rhythm tremble in my bones and travel down my spine. Dr. Randall stiffened beside me as he took in the scene — in fact, he looked rather alarmed, although he was quickly working to hide it. I pulled him into a corner near the entrance and inquired, “What’s wrong?”

He peeked over his shoulder, his hat low to hide his gaze, and then turned back to me. “We’re rather,” he hesitated, but then pushed on with a breath, “outnumbered.” I stared at him, my mouth open in puzzlement. I could perhaps guess at what he meant, but didn’t wish to presume. Dr. Randall gave me another meaningful look, and then, exasperated, almost quietly spat out, “By negroes.”

I widened my own eyes in exasperation, but looked over his shoulder to take my own look at the crowd. While a good deal of the patrons were African or colored, there were plenty of other races too — including whites like us, all engaged in the music or in sprightly conversation. I put a hand on his arm in reassurance. “Hardly,” I said, not unkindly. “Everyone’s having a good time.” I pulled him out of our little alcove and headed toward the bar. Parched from our flight and the walk, I was in need of a drink myself.

The song ended as I got the barkeep’s attention, and after a small round of applause the room fell into the quiet chatter among patrons. He, like many of the patrons, was African, with dark skin and eyes; when he spoke it was with a proper London accent. “What will it be, miss?” he asked in a low, velvet voice.

I smiled at him, considering. I then glanced back at Dr. Randall, who was still looking a bit stiff and uncomfortable, and decided to give him something to really worry about. Feeling mischievous, I said to the barkeep, “Absinthe, please, the usual way.” He gave me a long look, which I matched, and then reached behind him. Returning with a bottle and placing it on the bar, he turned to Dr. Randall and raised his eyebrows in question.

“Whisky,” Dr. Randall said shortly. The barkeep nodded in affirmation.

I watched as the barkeep poured a good measure of green-tinged liquor into a short glass, placed a slotted spoon with a sugar lump over the top, and then poured water over all of it, dissolving the sugar into the absinthe and giving the liquor a milky glow. He pushed the finished cocktail across the bar to me, and then quickly served Dr. Randall a generous pour of whisky. I took a sip and smiled brightly at Dr. Randall. “It’s delightful.”

“I’m sure,” he said, still not amused. The band was striking up again, and he sat down at a small table near the back, as everyone on the crowded dance floor seemed to condense together, coupling up for the next song. It was a faster, brighter tune, and my foot started tapping, but I sat down next to Dr. Randall. He leaned over and nudged my shoulder, nodding towards the dance floor, where folks were enthusiastically moving to the beat. “I never learned the Charleston,” he said, almost apologetically.

“No. You couldn’t have.” I said, flabbergasted. “I’ve been dancing it since I was a girl — I learned in Paris, you know.” I positively gulped down my drink and lept back up, grabbing his hand. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Dr. Randall — athletic, suave, and proficient at a basic box step — turned out to have two left feet. We were laughing hysterically in eachothers arms as I tried, once again, to show him the step. “It swings a bit, you see, and then…” We smacked our legs together as we both moved forward at the same time. “Why are you trying to follow?” I asked.

“You’re teaching,” he gasped between laughs. “Aren’t you leading?”

“I’m the woman. You lead.” He took me into his arms again. “One, two, three: back, forward, forward, back… ouch!” Our ankles again smashed into one another, and I reached down to soothe my foot. “It’s really more like a tap than a step!”

He pulled me back to my feet and the grabbed me by the waist, lifting me up and spinning me around. I flung my arms about his neck and felt my knees bend behind me. I laughed into his shoulder, smelling the masculine scent of him, the whiff of cologne with a musk of sweat underneath. The music, and then the spinning, stopped. Dr. Randall set me down, sliding me against him; I felt a distinct hardness against my belly when my feet touched the floor. “Another drink?” he inquired.

“Why Dr. Randall, I do believe you’re trying to intoxicate me,” I teased.

Three absinthe cocktails later (the last was bubbly; I was sure champagne was involved) and I was pleasantly lightheaded, and perhaps just a bit tipsy. Dr. Randall had his arms about me as we danced a slow, heated blues number, somehow even hotter than the song the band played when we had first arrived. He was down to his shirt-sleeves, and had even removed his tie; I felt the heat of him move through me. We were hand-in-hand, chest-to-chest, pelvis-to pelvis, and nearly stuck together, our sweat mingling with our breath. I rested my chin on his shoulder; I liked the way I could tuck my face into his neck, where the slight roughness of a re-growing beard was beginning to come in. I liked the way we fit together; I liked the way he felt; I liked him.

Dr. Randall ran his fingers down my spine and rested his hand on my back; this time it was definitely lower than strictly proper. I grinned into his neck and he must have felt my lips move because he chuckled low in his throat. “You are so lovely,” he said in my upturned ear, so softly I almost couldn’t hear him over the music. We still swayed slowly, just barely enough to keep up the pretension of dancing. I felt his fingers in my hair, and closed my eyes, wanting to gently float away on the sensations. I lingered in the moment, longing for it to go on forever.

And then it was last call, and my reverie ended. The music stopped, fading away from my consciousness, and Dr. Randall released me from his grasp. “We should go,” he said. “It's over.”

It had been boiling inside the Shim-Sham Room, and it wasn’t any cooler as we stepped outside onto the street. The heat was like a suffocating blanket. It was unfathomably late, and the streetlights shined pools of yellow across the city. We turned our feet toward a main road, in hopes of finding a cab.

“You forget, you know,” I whispered, almost to myself. “The lights. The people. The noise. The cars and buses and trains…”

“Do you miss it?” Dr. Randall asked softly, curling his arm around me as we walked. “When you’re away?”

Did I? I was so rarely in London — or in proper civilization for that matter — that I wondered if I could miss something I had no claim to. “It’s not really home. I don’t have one, I suppose.”

“You haven’t a home? Am I not escorting you to your Uncle’s flat?” He chuckled.

“You haven’t done a good job of it so far,” I teased, and then sighed. “We’re hardly ever here. Nine months in Peru was the longest I’ve been anywhere in years.”

“Do you ever wish to stay?” He whispered to me, his nose caressing my ear and his cheek in my hair.

It didn’t take much. I turned my head and grasped at his shirt, pulling him to me and finally — _finally_ — he kissed me and the world fell away. I could feel the thump of his heart, and my own heartbeat fell into time with his. His hand on my waist tightened, pulling my hips into his like we were once again dancing. I wanted...

“Oi, mate! Snog her, don’t swallow her!” A leering voice from across the street hollered at us; I spotted a group of young men who were now laughing and acting rather pleased with themselves as they ran down the street.

“Bugger off you bloody voyeurs!” I yelled after them, flashing an obscene gesture in their direction.

“Claire!” He pulled on my sleeve, regaining my full attention.

I laughed. “Yes, Frank?”

He smiled at me, a bit chastened by my tone. “Do you always use that sort of language with riff-raff?” Frank was overcoming his initial objections, and trying to be amused by my shocking and uncouth outburst.

“Only when they deserve it.” I took his hand in mine, and gestured with my head down toward the main square. “Come on, there may be cabs down there.” I hadn’t been to Trafalgar Square in years, and it was quite different at night — empty and all lit up. There wasn’t a soul in sight; no cabs either. My shoes (with rather sensible low heel and rounded toe) were meant to withstand the tribulations of travel but a night trapspaising around town, drinking, dancing and running from gamblers, was pressing the limits of my comfort.

I plunked myself down on the edge of the fountain and leaned back to dip my fingers in the cool water. It felt heavenly. I looked around again; there was no one else around except Frank and myself. It was a moment’s impulse, and I quickly kicked off my shoes and then reached up my legs to unhook my stockings, pulling them off.

“What on earth are you doing?” Frank asked, astounded yet again.

“Going for a swim. You should take your shoes off.” He looked at me like my head was on fire. I pointedly ignored this look, stepped up onto the ledge of the fountain and hopped in with a splash.

“You’re insane. Do you want to get arrested?”

“It’s lovely! You should join me.” The water wasn’t very deep — it barely reached halfway up my calf — but it was cool and refreshing.

“I’m not at all amazed you’ve never been to school,” he said, teasingly sarcastic. “Some discipline would do you good.”

I sat down, and began to splash at Frank, who was looking around frantically to see that we weren’t observed. I crawled to the edge of the fountain and kneeled by the ledge. I tilted my head up and, as if he couldn’t resist, Frank bent to softly kiss me. “Don’t be a fuddy-duddy,” I whispered, cajoling him. “The water’s fine.”

I could see his intransigence breaking. “How can I resist a siren’s call?” He asked, and then bent to pull off his shoes. He removed his jacket and tie, making a neat pile on the edge with his hat on top, and then stepped into my arms. We fell together into the water, and a splendid splash echoed through the empty square. The both of us now drenched and laying in the fountain, Frank rolled onto his back and propped himself up on his forearms, while I rolled partially onto his torso, kissing him enthusiastically. “It’s the first time I’ve been cool all evening,” he whispered into my neck as his lips wandered deliciously.

“Not too cool, I hope,” I cooed back, suggestively sliding the leg I had thrown over his up towards his loins.

“Never,” he growled. He came back to my lips with ferocity. The water was cool but I suddenly wasn’t; I was on fire, every warm shiver and sensation I’d felt all evening was back with a vengeance. His hands were on my bum, pushing me up and over so I sat more squarely on his hips and I began to squirm in earnest. I rubbed against his hardness and one of his hands moved to my breast, pinching the hard nipple and making my vision blur. I was sure the water should be turning to steam. I kissed Frank hard with want, trying to reach for that final sensation that would...

A rather stern voice interrupted us: “Miss, could you please, ahem, dismount?”

Damn. The bobbies had found us.


	4. Chapter 4

I sat, sopping wet, on the edge of the fountain next to Frank with two very amused policemen standing in front of us. Before gallantly helping me out of the water, Frank had pulled me close and whispered in my ear, “Let me do the talking,” and I was happy to oblige — mostly. He was effortlessly charming the pair of bobbies, neatly working in that he was a very respectable professor who would never truly do anything _so shocking_ , you see, it was just the _romance_ of the _moment_ had made him lose his head a bit, that was all. This, of course, turned the bobbies’ attention to me, and I was sure I looked more like a drowned sewer rat than any reasonably conceivable _objet d'affection_.

“You said she’s not a whore, but what proof do we have?” one of the policemen practically leered, looking me over with a stern eye.

My head shot up, and I glared at him with the steeliest gaze I could muster: “I beg your pardon?”

“Yes, I believe you owe an apology to the lady,” Frank said, as angrily as he could be while still maintaining a veneer of obsequiousness. “She is the niece and ward of one of the most preeminent archaeologists in the empire, who is about to be honored by the king, and you will show her due respect.”

Our show of defiance seemed to cow the officer a bit, who then conceded, “My apologies, miss, it’s just usually when we’re pulling a bird off someone…” He shrugged, indicating this wasn’t going the usual way.

Frank seized the moment. “If you gentlemen would be so kind as to assist us in finding a cab, we would be most grateful,” he said in his most authoritative, professorial manner. This seemed to sway the one officer, but the other — the one who hadn’t called me a whore — held up his hand to keep us from getting up and scampering off.

“Well, there’s still the matter of you two engaging in indecent conduct where anyone could see,” he said slowly. “I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

I sniffed suspiciously. I had watched Uncle Lamb pay countless bribes to slimy government officials who cared more about their pockets than the law so he could to smooth the way for his work — and I smelled a snake. I hopped to my feet, and stared him straight in the eye. “In that case, you’re going to need to take me to the gaol.” I held my hands out in front of me, awaiting handcuffs. I saw Frank’s soul leave his body. “I'd be delighted to make the acquaintance of your sergeant.”

The copper was taken aback, but soon regained his gusto. “I’m sure he’d be pleased to make yours as well, lady, when he’s signing the charge sheet that reads prostitution and indecent exposure.”

“You have no evidence,” I sneered straight into his face.

“I’ve enough to charge you, even if they won’t stick, and it could be hours before you even get a telephone call.” The officer was looking smug and I was ready to smack him. I drew my hand back and just as my arm started to move, Frank grabbed it in motion, stopping me. I groaned in frustration, but he was directing his attention back to the bobbie.

“You are right, sir. I’m sure we can come to some accomodation,” Frank said smoothly.

In the end, it took about 20 pounds and Frank’s very fine watch to convince the police officers not to arrest me. I sullenly fussed with my damp stockings, angrily deciding to forgo them entirely, and then strapped my shoes on my bare feet as Frank bade the coppers a polite farewell. He turned back to me, almost reproachful, but then seemed to think better of scolding me and came over to dress himself. He sat next to me as he put on his own shoes, and nudged my shoulder with his. I looked at him, expecting to see anger, but found an amused tenderness in his eyes that made me respond in kind.

“I’d expect this to happen in India, not London,” I said softly.

“'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,'” he quoted.

“Oh?” I said. He shrugged, and I kissed him  — gently, to apologize. His lips were warm and comforting, like arriving in a familiar place I’d never been but always wanted to go. “Take me home?”

We finally found a taxi cab near St. James’ Palace, and I directed the driver to my flat in Belgravia as Frank climbed in beside me. “Belgravia? You couldn't possibly be so posh,” he teased, his arm sliding behind my back and leg pressed into mine.

“I’m not, I assure you. Neither is Uncle Lamb,” I chuckled. “But you’ll have to see for yourself.”

His arm tightened on my back, pulling my body closer to his, and Frank boldly stroked my naked thigh, fingertips brushing under my skirt. My breath quickened, and I suddenly felt as if all the blood had drained from my head. The cab smelled richly of human bodies, but I was focused on the smell of Frank’s almost antiseptically clean skin; the fountain we’d been swimming in had been chlorinated. He nibbled on my ear and whispered, “How quiet can you be?” I didn’t answer in words, but glanced significantly at the cabbie — who had clearly chauffeured amorous couples before and was pointedly keeping his eyes on the road — and then bit my lip and nodded, assenting to whatever Frank was asking.

His hand, strong and sure, raced up my thigh to my hip, and then took a turn between my legs. I felt my pulse race again as Frank’s fingers quickly navigated my knickers and began to tease me. I exhaled sharply as the cab turned, the force shifting my hips into Frank’s hand in a delightful way. I looked out the window as we passed Eaton Square Gardens, trying to stay calm as my body electrified, and vaguely registered that we were very close to our destination. The cab was as hot as it still was outside, and my own temperature was rising fast; despite my dress still being damp, I was breaking out all over in a sheen of desire-induced sweat. My leg stiffened in a vain attempt to keep my hips still as Frank buried his face in my neck and I wanted…

The taxi cab stopped and I suddenly came into myself again. Frank took my hand and practically pulled my breathless body out of the vehicle, and I stumbled onto the sidewalk heaving as he paid the cabbie. The neat row of white townhouses, so elegant and yet so foreign to me, seemed an admonition to my disheveled and wanton state. I fumbled for the house key I wore on a long chain tucked into my dress, and pulled it out. Frank, solid and steady, walked me to the door, his hand on my elbow. I leaned into him, finding my proverbial sea legs. “You’re coming up?” I asked, inclining my head suggestively towards to door.

Inside, the chase was on. I nearly ran through the foyer and up the stairs to my bedroom, Frank hot on my heels. I heard him chasing me around the corner, laughing, and I stepped to the side of the door, hiding in plain sight. He stood in the middle of my childhood room looking bewildered, and I took the chance to study him. The fountain had washed the pomade out of his dark hair, and it floated in wisps under his hat. It was boyishly charming, and the look of mischief in his eyes and flush on his cheeks as he slowly turned and spotted me completed the picture. I grinned at him, and he smiled as he came and pinned me properly to the wall.

His kiss was hot and urgent, and I again found myself melting into him. With no dance hall patrons to offend, I stood on my tiptoes to align our hips, and then brought my leg up around his body as we explored with our hands — he took a moment to undo the top buttons of my dress and then grabbed onto my arse and hoisted me up against the wall. I wrapped both legs around him and moaned when he finally came in contact with my core, his lips lavishing my breasts.  

I had my hands around his back, under his jacket and vest, desperately trying to pull his shirt from his trousers. His mouth wandered back up my neck to my ear and then he was kissing me again, hard and fierce. Just when I thought I was going to burst into flame, Frank adjusted his grip on my bum and carried me over to the bed, sitting down hard with me on top of him.

I rose on my knees and looked down at him — remarkably, was was more disheveled now than he had been all night. He was working on more of the buttons on my dress, and I flung off his hat (which was hilariously still on his head) and started in on his tie and vest. With enough of my chest exposed, he pulled down ruthlessly on my brassiere and sucked hard on the nipple; it took everything in me not to scream out in pleasure. He had his hands inside my knickers, working to pull them off when…

“Shit. Damn, damn, dammit.” I muttered.

“Huh? What?”

But I was extracting his hands from under my dress and climbing off him. “Just, um, wait. Won't be a moment,” I said apologetically, frantically looking around the darkened room for my luggage. Had Firouz unpacked it? I hadn't asked him to do so, but I hadn't asked him not to either. If he had found what I was looking for, well, that would be awkward in the least. I was cursing under my breath — it wasn't on the desk, or piled neatly by the chair, and I was opening and closing dresser drawers, looking to see if my clothes had been replaced.

“Is there something I could assist you in finding?” Frank asked, a little breathlessly, and with just a tinge of impatience.

But, I had flung open my closet door, and found my two suitcases on a luggage stand. “Oh, just my diaphragm.” I was digging in the smaller of the two, and found the case in a hidden pocket I had industrially, if clumsily, sewn into the lining.

“Where would a gently-reared girl like yourself get one of those?”

I stiffened a bit, but answered matter-of-factly. “Amsterdam.”

“You seem a bit young to often have need of it.”

“And you seem a bit old to be trying to snog young ladies in the Reading Room of the British Museum,” I snapped. I took a deep breath, and turned around to face him, the offending object in hand. “I'm sure this isn't the first time you’ve done this,” I said, trying for a conciliatory tone. “Don't think it's mine, either.”

He looked thoroughly chastened. “Of course I don't, Claire.” He reached out a hand, and I went to him, only a little reluctantly. I stood between his legs, and he pressed his face into my chest, arms around my back, and gently kissed one breast in apology. My desire sparked, and I pulled his face to mine, kissing him in soft forgiveness. I stepped away again, headed towards the door to the W.C. “I’ll be right back.”

When I returned (diaphragm in proper position), Frank had taken off his tie, vest and jacket, and again stacked them neatly folded with his retrieved hat on top on my desk chair. He leaned against the desk, slowly unbuttoning his shirt, watching me. I knew I looked a fright — my hair was flying in every direction and my dress was open past the waist, hanging off my shoulder. I shimmied, just enough to let it fall, and Frank swallowed hard. I kicked off my shoes, noticing that he had already done the same. “You’re beautiful,” he said, sincerely, and I flushed.

I tilted my head in question, and that’s all it took. He tackled me to the bed. We landed with a crash but it didn’t matter. His weight pushed me into the soft quilt and his hands were on my breasts, caressing the nipples through the brassier, the touch sending sparks through my whole body. The fire was back, and I hitched a leg up, bringing our hips together as he moved his pelvis against mine. I had his shirt off, and then the undershirt, while he fussed with the clasp on my brassier. He reached down and behind me, up my skirt until he had a good hold on my knickers, this time pulling them off completely. I had my hands inside his trousers, where he was hard and warm, and when I grasped him fully he breathed in harshly as if in pain, but moved against me. His fingers reciprocated on my bare, sensitive flesh, and I couldn't wait anymore. “Please,” I moaned in his ear.

He was off me only moments — long enough to tear off his trousers and to divest me of the remains of my clothes — when he finally lay fully on top of me, opening my thighs and pushing himself into me. We both shuddered, and I was already so close from a whole night of wanting his hands on me that the sensation almost pushed me over the abyss. Frank's mouth was buried against my neck, and his rhythm, slow at first, was picking up as I urged him on, needing more. The scrape of my breasts against his chest was sending sparks up and down my body, and my lips tingled, longing to be kissed again. I wanted everything at once — his kiss, his hands, his cock — and my hips jerked in frustration at being forced to stay on a precipice I couldn't quite fall over.

I tilted my pelvis and suddenly — _finally_ — felt the catch my body had been longing for. “Oh, oh, like that,” I breathed. Frank then reached under my back and grasped my shoulder, holding me to him, and used his other hand to tease my nipple, which at my squeal became a hard pinch. I slid one hand low on his back and caressed between his bum and used the other hand to pull his face to mine. I kissed him hard as I careened toward orgasm, my body trembling as intense pleasure radiated from my center to all my extremities.

Frank, compelled by the wave of my own climax, jerked hard into me once, twice, and again, and then collapsed as the wave took him. I ran a soothing hand down his back and he placed a tender kiss on my clavicle that was so pleasurable I nearly wept. He pulled one of my legs over his hip and rolled us to the side; remaining connected from pelvis to chest. He stroked my side, my breast, my arm, and then my face as I slowly came back into my body; every caress was a balm on my hypersensitive nerve endings, which were still going off like firecrackers.

Frank pulled me close to him and whispered, “How can it be that I've known you for so short a time and I already can't imagine life without you?”

I didn't have an answer, but I kissed him, and let the world fall away.

Wrapped in a silk dressing gown I’d retrieved from my luggage, I stumbled down the hall. It was scandalously early — only the first rays of dawn light were peeking into the windows. I slipped through the kitchen door, and was startled to be greeted by Firouz, who was already making tea. It didn’t escape my notice that he had set out two teacups on a tray — one for me, and the second for my heretofore unseen lover. “Good morning,” I said sheepishly.

“Late night?”

“Quite." I hesitated. “Sorry if we disturbed you.”

“It’s not the first time. Although it used to be nightmares about mummies and big holes under puddles of water,” Firouz said rather pointedly, sipping his own tea. I shuddered, recalling my childhood fear of puddles.

“Uncle Lamb isn’t home yet?”

“No, but if you’re looking to evacuate your gentleman caller before he arrives, I suggest you do it quickly.” I glanced at the kitchen clock; it was just before 6 a.m., which was about when Uncle Lamb’s overnight work sessions came to an end.

“He’ll probably find out eventually anyways,” I reasoned.

“Really? He never discovered your affair with Helmut, or the one with John, or the one before that — what was his name? The one with the eyes that looked like goggles?”

“Charlie,” I said, laughing a bit. I looked seriously at Firouz, who had been my teacher for as long as I could remember. “What if I want to tell him?”

He studied me seriously, as if looking at me in a new light. “Are you sure, Claire? Your uncle wants you to find your own way, but you know you can always stay with us.” I expected the ball of ice to return to my stomach, as it had every time the prospect of my future came up in conversation. University, work, marriage — I knew my circumstances couldn’t remain as they had been. But as my thoughts drifted to Frank, asleep in my bed upstairs, my insides warmed. It felt right, in a way nothing had felt right before.

I put my hand over his, in silent gratitude, and then picked up the prepared tea tray. “Thank you, Firouz,” I said, and left the kitchen to awaken my lover.

Frank, who I had woken with a kiss, gratefully accepted the cup of tea, and was being rather gracious about being kicked out of bed at such an absurd hour. I sat on the bed holding my own teacup, replaying our lovemaking in reverse as he dressed. I was blushing as he straightened his hair, remembering how it felt to caress the silky strands with tingling fingertips.

“You look like you’re far away,” he said to me, tying his tie in a fastidious knot.

“Not far at all,” I said, smilingly, “only a little bit in the past.” I raised my eyebrows suggestively, and he laughed.

“Wish I was there now.”

“Me too.” I scooted off the bed and stood before him, fiddling with the fit of his vest and then with the tilt of his hat. “You look very proper. Not debauched at all.”

He gave me a long once over. I was flushed, barely clad in my dressing gown, and I knew from a glimpse in the mirror the fair skin of my neck was marked and my hair was a positive bird’s nest. “I can’t say the same for you, but I’m sure you clean up well,” he teased. But then he turned serious. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“I don’t want you to go,” I said, regretfully. “But it’s better for Uncle Lamb’s sensibilities this way. He’ll be pleased when you call this afternoon to ask if I want to go with you to the cinema.”

“Is that so? And what will your answer be?”

“Is there a new John Wayne film playing?” I teased, laughing.

He laughed, and kissed me, with all the promise of new beginnings.


	5. Coda

_Twenty years later_

On the rare occasions Frank could watch Claire with their daughter, he thought he could see flashes of his wife as she was on the day they met. He remembered Claire at 18 all too well. He knew he would always see a part of her that way; he would always want her to make him feel the way she did then. The flashes came like moments of grace: a smile that encapsulated the pure, almost-innocent joy she once radiated; the quirk of an eyebrow that brought back the mischievous girl who went swimming in the Trafalgar Square fountain and dragged him into shady clubs to drink, cavort, play dice and teach him the Charleston. That Claire didn’t exist anymore, not for Frank. She had been erased by war, separation, distance, disappearance, and the ever-present-but-never-mentioned _him_ , and replaced by a woman who could only be whole for small slices of time.

Had he known it would be like this, living with the ghost of the woman he loved? Frank had thought it was the only thing he could do — she had returned to him malnourished, dehydrated, battered, insanely insisting she had married and fallen in love with another man _in another century_ , and pregnant. In his most private and shameful self, Frank knew he should have let her leave him. There was no mending of what had been broken for so long — what had been cracking even before their fateful second honeymoon in Scotland. But, he was weak: still too-offended by being investigated as a suspect in his own wife’s disappearance, still too-hopeful that once, just once, she might give him that feeling back, of being young and in love in a world filled with possibilities.

He had once loved watching Claire’s thoughts and emotions flitter across her face with the speed of a hummingbird’s wings. It was like translating Egyptian hieroglyphs — a language that many could see, of which only he knew the secret. Once, there was nothing her face could reveal that he did not adore. Frank could still read her face like a book, but now he resented her transparency, that she could not, for the life of her, lie to him.

To this day he couldn’t quite make his mind up. He knew Claire was honest to a fault; he’d gone hunting though history for the bastard and found him — he had even found the record of her traitorous marriage. And yet, it was all so damned impossible that some days he couldn’t believe her story.

Claire was sitting on the floor, leaning against an ottoman by the fire, with his fiery-haired child on her lap and a medical textbook in her hands, gleefully explaining the intricacies of the human heart to her daughter. Claire’s pursuit of higher learning and a career mystified him; she had been so resistant to formal schooling before. But Brianna was enthralled by her mother’s attention, of which, between Claire’s classes and hospital clinicals, Frank thought she was sorely deprived. He knew that medical school was important to Claire, elemental to the core of her bones, even, but Frank could see his daughter’s longing for her mother’s care.  

The radio was softly churning out jazzy tunes that reminded him of London before the war, which he generally remembered fondly. The last years of his education had been productive and the first years of his marriage were the happiest of his life. But then, the radio struck up a familiar tune; Frank’s heart nearly stopped as the avalanche of memories overtook him. Claire, absorbed in her studies and her daughter, took a few moments longer to register the song, but Frank saw the moment she recognized it. Even with her back nearly turned to him, he watched her back straighten, the color leave her cheek and her jaw set in horror. Yes, Claire knew, and she remembered it too.

_“And when two lovers woo, they still say, ‘I love you;’ on that you can rely. No matter what the future brings, as time goes by…”_

Frank watched her listen for another few lines, and then say something softly to Brianna. Claire gently removed her daughter from her lap, helping her up, and then stood herself. “It’s bedtime, Bree,” she said sweetly. Brianna rolled her eyes, but marched out towards the stairs ahead of her mother. On her way out of the room, Claire hit the switch on the radio — not violently, but with a definite certainty — abruptly drowning the house in silence.

She hadn’t even looked at him.

THE END


End file.
